


Contact

by spunknbite



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Codependency, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Electrical torture, Electroconvulsive Therapy, HYDRA Trash Party, Homophobic Language, M/M, Medical Torture, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Rape, Sensory Deprivation, Sleep Deprivation, Torture, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violence, Vivisection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 03:44:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15501597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spunknbite/pseuds/spunknbite
Summary: Extreme PTSD, the doctors said, hypervigilance, anxiety, insomnia, nightmares, likely flashbacks and intrusive thoughts with dysphoric hyperarousal.Touch was a trigger, no matter whose it was.Heed the tags.





	Contact

**Author's Note:**

> Please, please, please heed the tags.
> 
> Lots of unpleasant stuff here - graphic depictions of rape and torture, as well as the psychological aftermath.
> 
> Written for the Hydra Trash Party Meme.
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr - spunknbite.tumblr.com

Bucky sits on the sofa opposite Steve, legs crossed, bent forward awkwardly over some sci-fi pulp borrowed from Sam’s stash. He’s actually reading now, eyes skimming right then down in an uneven, natural rhythm. Steve watches as he pauses momentarily on a word, backtracks a sentence, stutters forward again, then flips a page. _It’s progress that he’s really reading_ , Steve thinks as he hides behind his own unread book. The months and months Bucky spent feigning it, his eyes tracking the page too methodically, pages turned in perfect timing to the last, that was exhausting. But he’s relaxed enough to read now, so that’s something at least.

The sofas are separated by a few feet and a shared coffee table, occupied currently by two coffee mugs. Steve reaches for his and braces inwardly for the predictable flinch across from him as Bucky’s eyes snap from the page to Steve and track his movement - pick up the mug, raise the mug to his lips, take a sip, put down the mug - Bucky settles again when Steve stills.

_No unpredictable movements. No surprises. For the love of God, don’t touch him._

It had been Tony who’d told him that, and Steve had dismissed him immediately, foolishly. Tony wasn’t exactly tactful, so of course he’d upset him, of course he’d done something to set Bucky off into Winter Soldier mode, Steve had assured himself naively. Besides, when Bucky had turned up at the compound, confused and still half-brainwashed, he was looking for Steve, not Tony and his bravado. Steve had been so optimistic, so _happy,_ when Tony had called, his voice on the other end of the phone tight with uncharacteristic anxiety that should have been a warning to Steve; Tony told him to get back to the compound ASAP, and Steve did.

He should have realized sooner how bad the situation was; he should have taken a look at Clint’s fractured femur, Sam’s broken jaw and clavicle, and the med techs with injuries ranging from minor breaks to a serious concussion, and realized that this wasn’t solely Hydra programming. Steve hadn’t been there when Clint had patted Bucky on the shoulder and told him it was good he made it here, hadn’t seen how Bucky, who’d apparently been standoffish and watchful but relatively calm up until then, had in response snapped Clint’s leg and thrown him against a wall, then attacked Sam when he intervened. Steve also hadn’t been there when a few stupid but well-intentioned med techs had tried to patch up the bullet holes he’d walked into the compound with. Steve should have realized then that this wasn’t some leftover Hydra programming; the Winter Soldier wouldn’t have left aggressors alive. This was Bucky, confused as hell, but still Bucky.

But no, when Tony walked Steve down to the holding cell Wanda had managed to usher Bucky into and said _For the love of God, don’t touch him_ , Steve had brushed it off completely. Hydra, all of what Bucky had been through, what he’d been forced to do - they’d get through this together. Over a year of following outdated leads and raiding old Hydra bases for any hint, any intel on where he could be, and Bucky just turned up looking for Steve like it was nothing. He’d been so God damn _happy_ walking into that cell, despite Tony’s warnings.

And, taking another slow and deliberate sip of his coffee with Bucky watching hawkishly behind his book, Steve supposes they have gotten through it in some respects. The cell had been upgraded from that initial holding cell to the Hulk containment area to this remote apartment on the compound that did an excellent impression of normalcy. Two bedrooms, two baths, nicely furnished throughout; Internet, Netflix, a small patio out back, no locks to keep Bucky inside. Sam and Nat even stop by occasionally, Sam with a new book and Nat with some coffee blend picked up on her last overseas trip. _If you squint_ , Steve thinks, _it looked okay._

Steve doesn’t put his book down and go rinse his mug in the kitchen. Instead, he says, “I’m going to put my book down and go rinse my mug in the kitchen. Need anything?”

Bucky’s eyes are back on him, sharp, a sniper’s, “No thanks.” Steve feels him staring as he sets the book down on the coffee table and picks up the mug as quietly as he can. Careful and obvious, he walks to the kitchen. _No unpredictable movements. No surprises._

Steve stands at the sink for a few moments after washing his mug and listens to the quiet of the apartment. No fluttering of pages. Bucky is still alert, waiting for the next sound, the next telegraph of movement, of a potential threat.

 

*

*

*

 

The first cassette he’d watched, alone, three months ago in the compound’s underground storage bunker, was innocuous enough to make Steve momentarily doubt the alarming labels of the others. After something relatively innocent - well, as innocent as Hydra was capable of being - the other cassettes couldn’t be as terrible as their labels led him to imagine. _Right?_

It was labelled _Asset - Physical Endurance Test - 1983._

The picture was grainy and the audio inconsistent, but Bucky was easily recognizable amid the herd of doctors and scientists. He sprinted, back and forth across a gymnasium as an unmoving camera recorded from the far side of the room. The scientists noted his times on clipboards, adjusted the sensors attached to him, and occasionally spoke to each other, the camera picking up little of the audio.

They measured the height and length of his jumps. They measured how much he could lift and push and throw. They weighed him down with barbells and retested the running and jumping portions. Bucky didn’t once speak that Steve could hear, never once interacted with any Hydra agents. Blank-eyed and vacant, he completed each task without hesitation.

It could have been Camp Lehigh if it wasn’t for the line of men in tactical gear standing on the sidelines, guns raised and tracking Bucky as he sprinted back and forth.

 

*

*

*

 

Dinner is routine. Everything is routine.

Steve sets the table. They have knives now, despite Tony’s (and Sam’s and Nat’s and Wanda’s and Clint’s and and and) reservations. But Steve is realistic enough to know that if Bucky decides to kill him, the absence of a butter knife won’t prevent him.

Bucky watches from his seat at the table as Steve putters in the kitchen, takes the chicken out of the oven and the potatoes off the stovetop. They’ve settled on a predictable menu consisting of things they ate _back then_ , updated only slightly. When Steve had been more optimistic, he’d hoped that cooking like he used to would spark some of Bucky’s memories, and he supposes that it possibly has to some extent - every few days Bucky looks up at him and asks _Remember when…?_ with a haunted look.

They eat in silence punctuated by brief attempts at conversation.

“Sam said you should come running with us tomorrow. Supposed to be a mild morning. What do you think, Buck?”

“The specs of your arm Tony found in the Hungarian base are pretty interesting, apparently. Tony has a few questions - maybe he can drop by?”

“I heard this new baseball documentary was good. Let me check, I think it’s on Netflix.”

What goes unsaid is the obvious, the responses Steve knows should be said, but aren’t in order to preserve the illusion of normalcy. Bucky won’t go running with Steve and Sam, just in case some cadet runs into him by accident and causes another _incident_. Tony almost certainly won’t drop by to chat, let alone look at Bucky’s arm like he wants to. And if Steve does put on the documentary after dinner, Bucky will only half watch from his sofa, most of his attention focused elsewhere.

 

*

*

*

 

The second cassette was labelled _Asset - Sleep Deprivation Test - 1982._

It was silent security footage of poor quality. Bucky, alone in a small, padded room, rocked violently against a wall. As Steve squinted at the video, he realized it was less of a rocking motion than Bucky throwing himself into the wall behind him then jerking himself forward repeatedly. A fluorescent overhead light was discernible only because of its frequent flickering.

Bucky’s frantic rocking eventually slowed and he slumped down in one exhausted and desperate motion, his chest rising and falling heavily in the rhythm of someone long in need of rest. Only a moment later and without warning, Bucky flailed awake, his body upright again as the rocking resumed; an alarm must have sounded.

Sometime later he slumped a second time, only to shake awake again, now mouthing something that Steve couldn’t make out, over and over. Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, slamming the back of his head into the wall, still pleading. Despite the poor quality of the video, Steve thought he could make out tears.

The timestamp in the bottom right of the screen read 205 hours. Clenching his fists, Steve skipped through the video, fast-forwarding as Bucky continued to cycle through rocking, sleeping, waking, rocking, sleeping, waking, rocking, sleeping, waking - until after being woken once again, Bucky pitched forward, falling on all fours. Steve was certain Bucky was crying now. His shoulder shook and he collapsed, head in his hands. He reached out, grasping for something or someone not there, still mouthing the same thing over and over again.

Three uniformed men entered and hauled Bucky, semi-conscious but shaking violently and still reaching for something only he could see, out of the cell. The video turned to static.

 

*

*

*

 

At night Steve listens for patterns in Bucky’s breathing. Their bedrooms share a common wall and Steve can pinpoint the moment Bucky falls asleep; alert, wakeful breathing eases until it’s even and slow. If Bucky sleeps around eleven, the nightmares don’t start until two or three, giving Steve a few hours to sleep himself before Bucky’s breathing gets ragged and panicked, followed by the sounds of violent thrashing.

Bucky doesn’t want help. Steve tried to intervene, first when Bucky was still in the cell and then again soon after they moved to the apartment, but it only worsened the situation, left Bucky sobbing and vomiting and Steve bleeding. In daylight when Steve dared ask how he could help, Bucky just pled to be left alone. He metabolizes sleep aids and anti-anxiety drugs too quickly, Bucky told Steve, and he doesn’t want Steve in his room, can’t handle an intrusion like that, an unplanned knock on his door in the night. And no doctors, _please Steve, no doctors._

So Steve lays awake and listens as Bucky’s breathing speeds up until he’s panting. Then the crying and the weak whispers of _no_ and _please_ and _stop_. Then tossing, the pulling of fabric, strikes on the already battered headboard and wall. Soon after the fit he fully wakes and Steve can almost hear the convulsions through the wall. Sometimes Bucky showers after, and sometimes washes his sheets. But not tonight; tonight Steve hears footsteps approaching his door, not the bathroom.

“Steve?” His voice is hoarse through the door.

“Yeah, Buck?” No point in pretending he was asleep. If he can decipher Bucky’s breathing, Bucky surely can his.

“Can I come in?”

Deep inhale; this is new. “Of course.”

Steve sits up in bed, watches as the door slowly swings open as Bucky, sweaty and red and wrecked, steps in. He’s bitten his bottom lip bloody and as he comes closer Steve notices he’s scratched his right arm raw. Steve doesn’t say anything, doesn’t dare draw attention to any of it, knowing Bucky will flee if pressed.

 _Please just let me touch you_. _Please just let me hold your hand._

“Can I sleep here?” His voice is so small. Steve sucks in a breath.

“Yeah, of course, Buck.” Steve slides over and makes room, checking his burgeoning expectations. They’ve had brief moments of progress before, but it never lasts. There are no miracles here, not with Hydra in Bucky’s wake.

But Bucky doesn’t lay on the bed; he lays down on the floor next to Steve’s night table.

Steve wants to say something, wants to insist Bucky take the bed. It’s big enough for them to share without touching, wide enough for Bucky to stretch out without bumping Steve. Or Steve can take the floor, let Bucky have the bed to himself. But he doesn’t risk it, knowing it will only spook him back to his bedroom alone. So Steve lays awake listening to Bucky lay awake on the floor beside him.

“Love you, Buck.”

“Love you too, Stevie.”

 

*

*

*

 

Over a year ago when Tony had left Steve standing in front of the holding cell containing a huddled Bucky, he had been so God damn _happy_ , so naive.

Yes, Bucky was an absolute mess - multiple gunshots to the shoulder, smelled like he hadn’t bathed in weeks, as disoriented as he’d been when Steve had pulled him from that POW camp decades ago, and flitting between recognition and confusion. And yes - he’d just put Clint, Sam and a half dozen med techs in surgery, but there he was, alive and looking for Steve, and everything Steve had wanted since D.C. Everything Steve wanted since 1944.

Bucky had braced himself cautiously in the far corner of the cell, clearly anticipating an attack, but seeing Steve had disarmed him somewhat. There was recollection in his eyes, no matter how clouded.

“Steve?”

“Hey, Buck.”

A quiet standoff proceeded, Bucky observing Steve through wide eyes that had no place seeing all they had, Steve thought.

“Can I come inside?” A pause and then a curt nod, and Steve swung the cell door open.

More silence, only interrupted by the shifting of the plates in Bucky’s arm.

Minutes passed and then finally, hesitantly, “I don’t know what’s real. I remember Brooklyn but that can’t be real. I need to know what’s real _._ I can’t stand not knowing.” Bucky braced himself against the corner of the cell, breathing loudly, fingers scrambling for purchase on the bars. Steve should have stayed back, should have kept his distance, knew Bucky was caged and didn’t need to feel cornered too, but he approached anyway, because it was always just the two of them and he couldn’t let him feel as lost and alone as he looked.

Steve didn’t get close. Knocked back, hard and head first against the bars; metal arm against his throat, his own arm twisted (broken in three places) behind his back, knee to the gut repeatedly (minor internal bleeding). And then nothing. Bucky’d retreated back against the far wall of the cell, cornered himself again, arms out defensively, now gasping, “Please, I can’t. Don’t touch me.”

Steve raised his working arm submissively, opened his palm, the other arm dangling uselessly by his side. “I’m sorry. I won’t touch you. _”_

He hadn’t thought that meant _I won’t touch you ever_ _again._

 

_*_

_*_

_*_

 

Steve lays awake until six in the morning, half an hour before his usual run time with Sam. “Want breakfast?” Bucky, still on the floor beside the bed, hasn’t slept either.

“Okay.”

Before getting up, he tells Bucky exactly what he’s going to do, exactly how he’s going to move. _I’m going to walk to my dresser and get a change of clothes. I’m going to get changed in the bathroom. Then I’m going to go to the kitchen and start making breakfast. I won’t leave the kitchen until breakfast is cooked, and then I’ll put everything on the table and we can eat together. Sound okay?_ He gives Bucky time to get up and get himself situated and comfortable at the far end of the dining table, his usual lookout spot with full view of the kitchen, so he’s not rushed, so he has ample time to account for every movement, every gesture and possible threat of attack.

Steve makes bacon and scrambles some eggs, because Bucky always liked them scrambled. He toasts some bread too and makes coffee, like every morning. Their day moves ahead as every other day for the past few months, the relative intimacy of the night before impacting nothing.

 

*

*

*

 

On the advice of the doctors Bucky continued to refuse to see, Steve had been the only person to ever attempt touching him. The other Avengers made him uncomfortable for the most part and he could only handle them briefly in small groups under controlled circumstances. The cadets, techs, and especially the med techs were no-goes, and suggestions of so much as speaking to a doctor were met with increasingly scary breakdowns, so Steve was the natural person to take point. And Steve had been so _happy_ to do it. Anything to have Bucky back, anything to get him feeling like himself again.

In the holding cell a few days after Bucky made contact, Steve tried to touch him for the first time. As far as they could tell without approaching him, Bucky had managed to patch up the bullet holes with the med kit they provided. He’d eaten and showered and looked considerably less homeless than before, and while he threw himself against the bars savagely whenever a doctor attempted to speak with him, he was otherwise fairly calm as long as he had space and privacy. But he couldn’t just stay in a cell forever; Steve wouldn’t be his jailer after he’d had so many.

 _You need to establish trust. He remembers you so focus on that, on what’s shared. Be as non-threatening as possible. You’re Steve from Brooklyn, not Captain America,_ the doctors said. _Ask for consent for everything you do; he needs to feel like he has agency._

Steve brought him food, books, blankets and soap; he told him he’d bring him anything he wanted, he just needed to ask. Bucky asked for nothing, but he listened when Steve talked about _back then_ , cautious and overly alert but obviously interested. _Progress, very encouraging_ , the doctors said.

And so one morning, Steve asked, _“_ Can I touch you, Buck? Can I touch your shoulder? Just like this.” Steve placed his hand on his own shoulder. “Nothing more than this, I promise.”

Bucky was standing in what Steve then considered _his_ corner of the cell, the place he retreated to whenever he had company; in retrospect, it was his first perch, his first lookout spot to observe possible threats. His sofa, his chair at the far end of the dining table, the mirrored wall of the workout room, the bench on the back patio - all perches, all spaces Steve can never encroach on.

Steve watched as Bucky assessed the proposal like he was calculating trajectory, adding numbers and accounting for multiple variables. Slowly, so slowly, he nodded.

“Can I come closer?” A long pause, followed by another nod.

Steve, hands up in submission, approached. They were close enough to touch, close enough for Steve to reach out and caress Bucky’s stubbled cheek, but he fought to keep his head cool. He wanted to hug him, to tell him he was _so God damn sorry_ that every terrible thing Hydra did to him since the war had been his fault, tell him he’d do anything to make it up to him, do anything to make it right, that he loved him and never stopped and never would stop; he wanted to pull him close, promise he wouldn’t let go this time, never again let their fingers slip through like on that godforsaken train. But he breathed out and said instead, “Can I touch your shoulder now?” Bucky’s eyes met his; another nod.

He never got there. Steve had only raised his hand when Bucky grabbed it, twisted it until Steve heard a snap, and then struck him in the face with his metal arm. Steve was pulled off his feet by his hair and thrown into the bars behind him.

“It’s okay, Buck,” he said after he spat out a tooth.

The scene was repeated several times over the next few weeks. Steve asked permission. Bucky gave it. Then Steve got a moderate concussion, multiple facial lacerations, a shattered ankle, three broken ribs, and a crushed lung.

 

*

*

*

 

In the afternoon they sit outside. The weather’s milder than it’s been in weeks and Bucky could use some sunlight, Steve thinks. Steve sits with a sketch pad, doodling nothing in particular as Bucky sits across from him on his bench, tablet in hand.

 _If you squint, it’s almost normal,_  Steve thinks again.

“We should plant some vegetables soon. Maybe some peas and tomatoes? Or some mint?”

A ghost of a smile crosses Bucky’s face. “Remember those strawberries we tried to grow on your fire escape? 

Steve actually laughs. “The ones the raccoons got into? And they overturned the pot all over Mrs. Eckelson’s laundry?”

Bucky’s almost smiling. He’s so close to being recognizable, to being _Bucky_ again that Steve has a series of crazy thoughts involving standing up unannounced, closing the distance between them, sitting down next to him, and taking his hand in his. Such a small thing, so minor, so easy. Something they’d done a million times; hands brushing against each other on the dusky walk home from some cinema or diner, discrete until they’re indoors and shedding clothes and falling on his bed entangled. Or Bucky’s hand lingering on Steve’s armoured shoulder as he checks to make sure the bullet just grazed and not hit, then later that night in the relative privacy of a pup tent, Bucky tearing Steve’s uniform off, their hands clasped together as Bucky rides him.

A lifetime ago. Steve shakes it off and returns to his sketch pad.

He stopped trying to initiate touch three months ago, the same time he’d started watching the cassettes. The doctors said they both needed a break from it; it wasn’t working and there was no use in stressing Bucky and risking further trauma. What the doctors didn’t say, but Steve knew to be true, was this wasn’t a break, it was an end. Bucky had shed the programming months prior, was lucid all the time now, remembered more each day, and he insisted that he trusted Steve and understood logically that Steve wouldn’t hurt him. But so much as a gesture in his direction left Steve limping and Bucky hyperventilating.

 _Extreme PTSD_ , the doctors said, _hypervigilance, anxiety, insomnia, nightmares, likely flashbacks and intrusive thoughts with dysphoric hyperarousal_.

Touch was a trigger, no matter whose it was.

After finding the tapes in Novosibirsk, after watching them, he just couldn’t keep at it. It wasn’t helping Bucky heal, it was just retraumatizing him again and again with every aborted touch.

“Can I sketch you?”

“Only if I don’t have to pose.”

“Deal.”

Some days Bucky’s relatively chatty like this; answers questions easily and may even speak unprompted. Other days it’s all grunts punctuated with the occasional one word response. His shifts in mood are unpredictable, and Steve has stopped taking them personally, usually.

He sketches Bucky almost without looking up; he memorized his contours decades ago. Steve omits the dark circles, the stress lines, and the hollows of his cheeks that no amount of home cooking seems to fill. He finishes with his mouth, and doesn’t make him smile exactly, but it’s a more neutral expression than his ubiquitous worried frown.

“Want to see?”

“No, Steve.”

Steve doesn’t push.

 

*

*

*

The third cassette, _Asset - Enhanced Interrogation Training - 1983,_ opened with an older, greying man instructing a small group of uniformed men. Bucky stood behind the instructor, in full tactical gear, muzzle, and goggles.

Steve paused the video and retrieved his phone from his pocket to find one of Tony’s new projects then in beta testing - a live translator app that Bruce had dubbed “Star Fleet’s Universal Translator.” It was still in development and couldn’t keep up fully with brisk conversation, and the static of the recording would only further hinder it, but it at least would provide Steve with some level of context, something to distinguish background chatter from potential intel. He resumed the video. The translator only picked up segments of speech, but it was better than nothing.

The instructor gestured to Bucky <<...stress positions can be useful for intel extraction...painful when contorted correctly...unnatural weight distribution and pressure...mindful that subjects may break positions due to muscle fatigue...punishments for such disobedience.>> Bucky stepped forward and the instructor bent him down; the ease at which Bucky contorted himself into the position - flat-footed, knees bent in a low, painful squat, torso bent forward over the knees, head lowered, arms raised behind his back - told Steve this was not his first, or second, or third time assuming such a position.

<<...uncomfortable within minutes...painful soon after...the soldier can last longer than typical subjects, but still feels it.>> The instructor swatted Bucky on the back of the knees, but Bucky didn’t waver, and having failed to cause the reaction he was obviously hoping for, the instructor then smacked Bucky hard on his ass. Bucky pitched forward but caught himself, his breathing audible even through the muzzle. The instructor smirked at the trainees. <<...elicit a response for further punishment…>>

Steve closed his eyes through most of the other stress positions, the beating, and the burning, hearing only how Bucky’s breathing intensified as the lesson continued. When the instructor announced the final act would be waterboarding, Steve watched as Bucky’s goggles and muzzle were removed, revealing wide, terrified eyes and a mouth and chin wet with saliva and vomit. Bucky was laid on an inclined table and a towel was placed over his head, as one of the trainees brought a bucket of water to the instructor, and Steve turned the video off, head in his hands.

 

*

*

*

 

In the evening Bucky flips through Netflix and settles on the documentary about the history of the MLB. “Traitors,” he mutters when it shows the Dodgers’ move to L.A. The television plays at half volume, like always, and Bucky keeps watch of the apartment while only partially paying attention to the television.

Steve checks his phone (on silent; no unexpected chimes or rings) and finds a text from Tony saying that as the genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist funding Bucky’s ongoing spa treatment, he’s insisting that Steve leave the compound for the sake of his sanity, at least for a few hours if not a day or two. It’s true that he’s been cooped up for three months, Steve realizes after looking at his calendar app. He hadn’t fully felt the time pass; the days ooze into one another without the reliable structure of missions, recon, planning meetings, and debriefings to define them. There are no set goals to accomplish here outside of _keep Bucky calm_ and _contain him_ if the need arises. The goals he once had for Bucky were so unrealistic in hindsight; setting more seems increasingly naive.

 _Hit the town, grandpa_.  _Can’t babysit 24/7_ , Tony texts.

Steve hasn’t been off the compound since he returned from Novosibirsk, hasn’t left Bucky alone for more than an hour or two since he found the cassettes in that Hydra base.

Inoperative for at least two decades, judging by the tech, Nat thought. They knew it was abandoned; recon and what little intel they had on it said as much, but leads are leads, and a quick jaunt to Siberia was nothing outside of a normal weekend as far as Steve was concerned, especially worthwhile if they could come out of it with coordinates for an active base.

_Just the core team. A quick intel extraction. Sam and Vision - general recon, see if there’s anything interesting not on our blueprints. Nat and Tony - floppy disks, flash drives, anything on their computers; servers are in the subbasement, labs on floors two and three. Clint and Bruce - paper archive on the first floor, south side. Rhodes and Wanda - set a perimeter, just in case; we don’t want a repeat of Riga. I’ll assist Sam and Vision with the initial recon and then search the storage in the basement - it’s small according to the blueprints, I’ll be fine by myself. Wanda and Tony - be ready to light it up once we’re out._

It was nothing they hadn’t done a dozen times before.

The basement storage turned out to be a makeshift media room containing dated equipment and boxes of video cassettes. Steve hadn’t planned on sorting through any material during the extraction; too much to look through manually when FRIDAY could just analyze them once they returned to the compound. But as he hauled a load of boxes up the mouldering stairs, bound for the Quinjet, the peeling, faded label of one video cassette caught Steve’s eye. It was written in Cyrillic, like the rest, but had a yellowing sticker beneath it with clear, English writing:

_Asset - Physical Endurance Test - 1983_

A quick survey of the box revealed that it also contained _Asset - Internal Exam - 1982, Asset - Sleep Deprivation Test - 1982, Asset - Enhanced Interrogation Training - 1983, Asset - Sensory Deprivation Test - 1984,_ and _Asset - Electroconvulsive Therapy, Session 12 - 1985._

Steve swallowed. Bucky didn’t talk about what he’d been through, never once mentioned any of Hydra’s tactics or methods. Steve surmised it was barbaric; Hydra’s treatment of POWs was infamous during the war, and the level of Bucky’s PTSD was evidence enough of severe torture, but Bucky had never confirmed any of Steve’s suspicions. And he’d stopped asking long ago, stopped triggering him with the suggestion that talking about it might help in some way, and long before that he’d stopped suggesting he speak with a therapist or doctor.

But the labels on these tapes - Steve didn’t know how to process them. _Internal exam? Enhanced interrogation? Electroshock, for God’s sake?_

Steve loaded the box on the Quinjet, and on his next trip to the storage room, he searched the remaining cassettes for any additional English translations, but they had only Russian labels or no labels at all. The Cyrillic writing on the labels followed the same pattern as the ones marked with _Asset_ had; Steve may not have been able to read the language, but as he carried box after box up to the Quinjet, he was confident most related to Bucky. He pushed his growing worry down; _finish the mission, handle the tapes at the compound._

Steve closes his eyes as the television rolls footage of some World Series, and he tries not to see images from the cassettes even as they’re branded on his eyelids. He knows now what he should have done - closed off the storage room, reported to the team that it was empty or just old office furniture or whatever excuse worked, and then let it all burn with the rest of the base when Tony and Wanda bombed it on their exit.

He texts Tony back, _Why would I leave when this is such a 5 star spa you’re providing?_

Tony’s response is immediate, _You need a break. No joke._

Steve doesn’t reply.

 

*

*

*

 

The fourth cassette was labelled _Asset - Electroconvulsive Therapy, Session 12 - 1985,_ and Steve almost didn’t watch it.

The video started with three doctors discussing what looked like a modified ECT machine.

<<Recent outbursts during routine maintenance...violations of programming...corrections required for further field assignments.>>

<<...promote memory repression...receptivity to commands…bilateral electrode approach…maximize efficiency despite possible cognitive impairment long-term.>>

<<Physiology rejects most forms of anesthesia...no sedation required in this situation as long as the subject is restrained.>>

<<Dr. Kozlov also considering lobotomy...further review needed...cannot sacrifice performance.>>

The camera panned to Bucky, naked and strapped to a chair with multiple metal restraints. He was struggling wildly, spitting, and swearing in a mix of Russian and English. One of the doctors walked past him and Bucky lunged after him, but the chair remained upright, bolted securely to the floor. Garbled Russian off-camera that the translation program couldn’t decipher, and then a pair of terrified looking techs, considerably younger than the men on camera previously, approached Bucky with some sort of headpiece. The techs positioned themselves behind Bucky and flinched back with every one of his swings, but he remained restrained in the chair. After several aborted attempts, the headpiece was finally fashioned and the techs fled off-camera.

<<Preparing first voltage.>>

<<Clear.>> 

Bucky’s body went rigid, his limbs locked, back straight, eyes wide, a scream through clenched teeth. Then rapid convulsions and he fell forward, limp in the chair; he pissed himself and Steve saw a significant amount of blood dripping from his mouth.

<<Idiot… forgot the mouth guard...bit clean through his tongue again...explain to Dr. Kozlov...>>

<<...leave him that way…>>

<<His handlers would miss that tongue...>>

There was laughing off-camera, and Steve punched a wall.

 

*

*

*

 

The nightmares are bad the next night. Bucky’s thrashing and yelling, and Steve keeps his watch from the other side of the wall as the first hour drags into the second. _I’ll need to order a new headboard_ , Steve thinks as he hears a crack.

Eventually Bucky quiets. His breathing is ragged and awake.

Steve presses his palm against their shared wall and whispers, “I’m here, Buck.”

A long pause and more winded, laboured breathing, “I know.”

 

*

*

*

 

The fifth cassette was labelled _Asset - Sensory Deprivation Test - 1984._

It had Bucky, or whom Steve assumed was Bucky, dressed in a heavy black robe, fully hooded so his face was totally obstructed from view, goggled and with some sort of soundproof ear protection, trapped in a kneeling position on the floor of the same cell he’d been in during the _Sleep Deprivation Test_ , arms anchored behind his back, shackled and attached to the floor with a heavy chain. He was still except for an unsettling swaying motion; back and forth in an unnaturally quick but slight rhythm. _A seizure?_ Steve was unsure until he focused on the timestamp. The footage was sped up. Forty-eight hours. Forty-nine. Fifty. Fifty-one. Hours ticked by in seconds as Bucky swayed, otherwise unmoving.

Fifty-two. Fifty-three. Fifty-four. Fifty-five. Fifty-six. Fifty-seven. And then the swaying motion ceased as the tape slowed down to real time. Fifty-seven hours and eighteen minutes, and Bucky suddenly yanked his arms up, pulling the chain from the ground. His arms were still shackled together, but he was no longer confined to the floor.

Uniformed men with guns drawn swarmed the room. The video had no audio, but Steve could see the apparent commander yelling orders at Bucky, which Steve assumed he was unlikely to hear given the ear protection. The commander gestured to another man, who approached Bucky, openly shaking as he did do, and threw off his ear protection, goggles, and hood, before attempting to flee back to the ranks. Bucky had freed his arms however, and as the uniformed man retreated, Bucky grabbed him and forced him in front, as a shield.

Bucky was squinting and bobbing his head up and down, left and right, overwhelmed by the stimuli after so long in quiet darkness. The commander approached, gun still drawn, and ordered Bucky down.

Steve balked as Bucky flinched back at the sight of the commander, and immediately threw the uniformed man to his side. Hands up submissively, Bucky fell to his knees and didn’t resist as he was tased by stun batons.

 

*

*

*

 

The days roll into one another and the weather goes from mild to hot. Steve’s perfunctory patio garden requires watering multiple times a day, which at least gives him something extra to do while Bucky retreats inside with another pulp borrowed from Sam. “I’m going to run the tap to fill the watering can. Then I’m going outside to water the plants. Want to come?” Steve asks before he actually does any of those things. An inarticulate grunt answers him. It’s one of those days.

Steve isn’t yet outside when he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket - Tony, probably pestering him to take off for a few days again; not that Tony had any luck in convincing him to leave before, or would have any luck now. “Tony’s calling me. I’m going to take it outside.” Another grunt. Steve steps outside and answers the phone, sliding the patio door shut behind him. The glass isn’t fully soundproof for the likes of them, but it will bother Bucky less than if it were open.

“What the fuck, Rogers?”

Steve freezes. He’s been expecting this call since Novosibirsk; he’s been playing out this situation for months, contemplating just what words he could use to possibly justify his deception, but now in the moment with Tony finally accusing him, he can’t even manage a stammer.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” Tony continues. Steve breathes out; he hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath. Tony’s lighthearted, so evidently he hasn’t watched the cassettes yet then. No, Steve realizes, he’s just excited to have another data set to mine. The intel off the Novosibirsk computers had been rich - coordinates of multiple bases, names of unexposed Hydra officials operating in various European governments, and a detailed history of Hydra operations from the ‘60s to the early ‘90s - but it was coded impressively given its age. It kept Tony and Bruce distracted enough to forget about what Steve claimed was _just a few cassette tapes_ , which he’d locked down in a forgotten corner of the compound’s underground storage after watching the first set, conflicted about what to do with the rest.

“There’s hundreds of hours of video here, and audio too - an A.V. kid’s wet dream. Well, if that A.V. kid was also a secret Nazi. I’m going to rig up something for FRIDAY to go through it all. Looks like your pal features prominently from what I can make of the labels. Could be something on here about latent programming - ” And then Bucky’s suddenly behind him and twisting his wrist violently; the phone falls to the ground and smashes as Steve fights his initial, trained urge to strike back. _No unpredictable movements. No surprises. For the love of God, don’t touch him._

Steve raises his left hand and stands perfectly still aside from the painful twitch of his broken right wrist hanging at his side. Bucky circles Steve and lands facing him, his face alarmingly dead-eyed in a way Steve hasn’t seen in many months. “You found videos?” Of course Bucky had heard Tony’s side of the conversation. Of course he’d been listening.

“In Novosibirsk.”

“And now Stark has them?”

“Yes.”

“You watched them?” Bucky looks resigned. Steve sees that Bucky knows the answer already.

“Yes. Not all of them, but some.” He had known, while unloading the Quinjet after Novosibirsk, that he had to vet the tapes before handing them over to Tony and FRIDAY. Judging from the labels, Bucky wasn’t going to be keen on letting the team, or Steve for that matter, watch the contents. But, he rationalized to himself, there could be intel, Hydra secrets, programming they’d missed, information essential for the team’s next missions. And also, omnipresent in Steve’s mind, his consuming need to understand _the reason Bucky’s like this -_ the cassettes could answer that.

So he had surreptitiously lugged several boxes down to a storage area originally meant to house some of the team’s more explosive projects before Tony had just decided to build a separate bunker entirely for those. He’d borrowed an old VHS player from Clint who’d joked about catching up on all the bad ‘80s porn he’d missed out on; it wasn’t until his last stolen session, after he’d vomited until he was just dry heaving, and then showered so long that his fingers wrinkled to translucency, that he found that comment ironic.  

“Why?”

_Because you won’t tell me what they did. Because you won’t tell me how to help. Because I can’t even touch you on the shoulder, let alone kiss you or hold you, and I needed to know why, why I can’t hold your hand, why you jump at every sound, startle at every movement. Why you’re so irreparably broken. Because I am so frustrated and angry that I needed to be reminded you were the victim in this, not me._

“I thought I could help if I knew what happened.”

Bucky actually laughs. “Gotta save everyone? Fuck you, Steve.”

Steve briefly thinks Bucky’s going to run. There are no locks keeping him here; Steve won’t be his jailer, so he could just leave, vanish again from Steve’s life because of his failure, his continued inability to keep Bucky safe.

“I’m so sor-”

Both Steve and Bucky hear Tony’s suit at the same time. Bucky launches himself inside their apartment and bolts for - Steve’s not sure where - while Steve calls after him, “I’ll take care of it.”

Tony’s hovering over the patio fence. “Everything alright with Patty Hearst?”

Steve gestures to his broken wrist and the smashed phone on the ground. “My fault. Didn’t tell him I was answering my phone. Stupid mistake.”

Tony’s visor opens. “Steve, you need a vacation. I’m serious, man. You can’t do this forever.”

“I won’t have to. He’s getting better.” _Lies, comforting, happy lies._ Tony doesn’t question him but doesn’t believe him either, Steve can see.

 

*

*

*

 

The sixth cassette was labelled _Asset - Internal Exam - 1982_ , and Steve only managed a few minutes of it.

Strapped to a table and presumably immobilized by whatever was in the IV attached to his right arm, a fully conscious Bucky screamed as a surgeon made an incision across his abdomen.

<<Commencing vivisection. Dr. Kozlov has requested no anaesthetics, just immobilization, for research purposes…>>

Steve doubled over and struck the television.

 

*

*

*

 

Bucky’s barricaded himself in his bathroom, which is just as well because it gives Steve time to wrap his wrist enough to keep it somewhat in place.

“Buck?” Steve stands outside Bucky’s bathroom. “Can we talk?”

“Fuck off.”

“Can I at least keep you company? Sit outside the door? I’ll shut up.”

“Fine.”

This is what passes for comfort now, sitting with a door, or a wall, or several feet and a coffee table between them. _Fuck Hydra_ for everything they did to him.

 

*

*

*

 

The seventh and eighth and ninth and tenth cassettes weren’t labelled in English, and they’ve bled together in Steve’s memory. An afternoon spent watching horrors for Steve, decades of living them for Bucky.

Bucky was hosed down in an industrial shower with freezing water, vibrating from the cold as off-camera men laugh.

Bucky, skin so badly sunburnt that it’s raw, peeling and split, lips dry and cracked, was berated by a commander as two officers strip him down; another officer entered with a jar of coarse salt, and Bucky cried as the salt’s scrubbed into his raw skin.

Bucky forced to count as he’s lashed, his back a grid of blood and welts.

Bucky caged in a crate meant for a dog, kneeling on all fours, crouched low. A man in tactical boots taunted him, <<Act like a dog, we’ll treat you like a dog.>> The man rolled the cage to one side, tipping it so that Bucky tumbles, unable to keep his balance.

 

*

*

*

 

Four hours later, and they’re still separated by the bathroom door.

Four hours Steve spent reliving those God damn tapes.

Four hours Steve spent wondering what the hell Bucky was thinking in the room next to him.

Four hours Steve spent rehearsing what he’d say, how he’d plead, when Bucky inevitably tried to leave.

It’s Bucky who breaks the silence as four hours turn to five. “Were the tapes from when I was with the Soviets? Or the Americans?”

“Soviets.” Steve clears his throat, “Late ‘70s to ‘91, as far as I can tell.”

Steve hears a shuffle from the other side of the door, Bucky readjusting for the first time since retreating to the bathroom. And then, “I’m sorry you saw them. At least it wasn’t the Americans; they were worse. I wouldn’t want you to see what they did.”

 _Mother of God. What the hell could be worse than what he’d already watched?_ Steve searches for words and finally manages, “You have nothing to apologize for, Buck. I’m the one who’s sorry. They weren’t mine to watch. I had no right.”

“Now you know why I’m so fucked up. And hey, I don’t have to feel shitty about keeping you in the dark, so bonus.” A hollow laugh; he sounds so incredibly tired, Steve thinks.

“You’re not fucked up.”

“Liar. I’m fucked up and you’re here doing your Captain-America-patriotic-best to fix your sick war pal.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Fix your old fuck buddy then?”

“Buck, you know we were -”

“What were we?”

“- more than that.”

“At least you know why I won’t let you fuck me now.”

They relapse into silence.

Another shuffle from from the other side of the door, a deep inhale, then, “Did you watch that time with the attack dogs? I remember they had a camera.”

“Bucky, I don’t know what to tell you.”

“The truth would be nice.”

“Yes, I watched the first ten minutes.” The runtime had been over an hour. Bucky, left arm removed, fought off several vicious dogs in a pen, while drunken Hydra officers laughed and placed bets. Steve had turned it off after Bucky was bitten so badly on the calf that muscle showed through.

“That’s good you didn’t see the ending.”

“Buck -”

“And the times with the other Winter Soldiers? You see any of those?”

“No.”

“Are you lying?”

“No. I didn’t see any with them.”

“Good.”

“Buck -”

“Don’t.”

“None of it was your fault.”

 _“_ I know, but I still let it happen.”

“No, Buck -”

“Why didn’t you just tell me you found the tapes?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Good try.”

 

*

*

*

 

Steve didn’t count the rest of the cassettes. He watched bits and pieces in some sort of guilt-ridden frenzy to satisfy his need to know _why Bucky’s like this_ , how badly he failed him by letting him slip through his fingers into Hydra’s grasp, how much he needed to atone for.

Bucky, naked in the Siberian snow, shivered uncontrollably as doctors in snowsuits took notes.

Bucky, skin an unnatural grey hue and eyes unfocused, strapped to an operating table as a doctor adjusted his IV. <<...keep him nice and compliant for tonight…>>

Bucky screaming while the soles of his feet are burned in a fire pit. A commander forced his hands in next. <<Fail us again and I’ll burn your pretty face off next time.>>

Bucky swaying in the ECT chair as he’s fed a new drug cocktail. His Russian slipped and he’s blinking stupidly at the doctor, slurring, “Help me.”

 

*

*

*

 

A few hours later, still outside the bathroom door, and Steve realizes his wrist must have set wrong; not surprising given the amount of time that had passed since the break. This sort of thing happened occasionally during the war, and Bucky was always the one to readjust Steve’s shoulder or knee or fingers back to their proper place, hands lingering a touch too long for a public display, a promise of something later in private.

Steve wraps his wrist tighter with the same bandage, and puts the pain from his mind, leaning back against the bathroom door. “You want something to eat?” It’s the second time Steve’s asked.

“No.”

“Do you want anything else?”

No answer, but Steve hears Bucky get up from the floor, feels the weight of the door shift as Bucky’s no longer pressed against it.

Steve stands hurriedly and clears the doorway, stepping back to give Bucky the space he needs. When Bucky emerges and walks past Steve to his bedroom, his face is wet and the dark circles under his eyes are more pronounced.

“Buck -”

“I can’t. I’m going to bed.”

The exhaustion hits Steve with the thud of Bucky’s door closing. He hadn’t realized how tired he was, how boneless he feels. Steve retreats to his room, lays on the bed, closes his eyes, and listens to Bucky’s breathing, a familiar rhythm.

Hydra took so much from Bucky, Steve thinks as he presses his good hand against the wall that separates them, but here is the true, lasting damage. Hydra stole his ability to be comforted, to have intimacy, to recover from all they put him through.

“I love you. I’m so sorry,” Steve whispers.

“I know. I love you too, Stevie. I’m sorry I let it happen to me. I’m sorry I’m so fucked up. I’m sorry I can’t be who you want.”

“No, it’s not like that -”

“I need to sleep.”

“Buck, don’t think that I -”

“I need to sleep.”

“Please, just let me say -”

“Let me sleep.”

But Bucky doesn’t sleep for hours. It’s after three in the morning when Steve hears changes in his breathing, and well after four when Bucky finally falls into a restless doze. Steve doesn’t bother trying to sleep himself, despite his exhaustion; Bucky’s breathing is uneven, erratic even in sleep, and Steve needs to be alert, just in case the nightmares hit early, just in case Bucky asks for him this time. Instead of sleeping, he lays awake, drafting and redrafting one-handed texts to Tony to convince him to leave the tapes be. He doesn’t send any of them; there’s nothing he can say to Tony to convince him to stop without violating Bucky’s privacy more than he already has. Steve tosses his phone down and decides he’ll figure out what to do about Tony after he’s had some coffee in the morning. He focuses again on Bucky’s breathing.

He wants to remember Bucky as an eight-year-old, all gangly limbs and wild hair, grabbing Steve’s hand and excitedly leading him down the fire escape to play with his new baseball. Instead he remembers Bucky strapped to an inclined chair as a team of doctors pull broken teeth from his mouth, blood dripping garishly down his chin.

He wants to remember Bucky as a thirteen-year-old, pressing a cool cloth against the shiner Steve got from Jack Campbell two floors up, his fingers fluttering against Steve’s orbital bone, face flushed as he says that Jack’s going to get it tomorrow. Instead he remembers Bucky gagged with rope, pleading nonsensically as a hot brand of the Hydra emblem is pushed against his inner thigh to a chorus of <<Hail Hydra>> and searing skin.

He wants to remember Bucky as a sixteen-year-old, drunk off the cheap whisky stolen from his father’s stash, clumsily kissing Steve as he fumbles with the buttons on Steve’s trousers. Instead he remembers Bucky being injected with some experimental drug to make him more submissive. He seized violently on the floor, foaming at the mouth, before regaining consciousness only to hallucinate past tortures, sobbing for mercy in both Russian and English.

He wants to remember Bucky on any given Friday night, dressed up and impossibly charming at that week’s dance or social or movie, the dames trying and failing to be coy with him. Instead he remembers Bucky with both tibias broken, dragging himself across a gymnasium floor as Hydra agents in lab coats time him.

He wants to remember Bucky later on any given Friday night, not long before midnight, jacket off and once slicked hair now tousled, as he and Steve press desperately against one another in the privacy of Steve’s apartment, Bucky repeating a familiar refrain, “Wish I could take you out, wish I could show you off.” Instead he remembers Bucky slumped against a wall of a filthy cell, shirtless and with deep, unhealed lacerations across his chest. He’s slick with sweat, his face pallid, body shaking with mild tremors. A voice off-camera narrates <<Day twelve of sepsis. Subject is running a fever of 41 degrees Celsius…>>

He wants to remember Bucky in his army-issued briefs, stretching languidly on the his bedroll in a tent pitched in God-knows-where Germany, head against Steve’s shoulder as he traces lines on Steve’s bicep, smiling like the cat that got the cream. Instead he remembers Bucky being led into a room with a trembling elderly man, whose aged eyes widen as a commander tells Bucky <<Make him talk.>>

Steve closes his eyes and longs for morning.

Bucky’s nightmares hit just before six; the depressingly familiar writhing and crying devolves quickly into screaming and hoarse sobs, then panicked pleas for help. Steve presses his palm against the shared wall and whispers, “Buck, it’s a dream. Try and wake up. You’re safe,” But the thrashing worsens, and there’s a loud thump as Bucky presumably falls from the bed. After several cracks and what Steve thinks may be a bedpost breaking, Steve hears glass shattering, and he’s out of his bed, down the short hall, and standing outside Bucky’s door. A deep breath in, and Steve opens the door as quietly as he can.

Bucky’s broken the window. He sits underneath it, shaking, surrounded by jagged shards of glass, a detached bedpost nearby. His eyes are open but blank, dead and unseeing like in so many of the videos Steve shamefully watched.

 _Night terrors_ , the doctors had said, _no evidence of sleepwalking or severe parasomnia symptoms now, but it’s something you need to watch for._ They’d wanted to set up a camera in Bucky’s bedroom so FRIDAY could monitor the situation; Steve had declined in the interest of Bucky’s privacy.

“Bucky, can you wake up?” _He’s so close to the broken glass._ “Buck, please, it’s Steve. Can you wake up for me?”

Bucky doesn’t hear him. He’s still shaking, his fingers scrambling against the floor, against the glass, droplets of blood trickling onto the carpet from his right hand.

Steve startles forward at the sight of the blood. He needs to move Bucky, but he can’t touch him. He feels helpless, small, incapable in a way he hasn’t felt since before the serum, and as Bucky clutches a piece of glass in his right hand,  squeezing it so that blood now streams from his palm, Steve launches himself towards him, knocking the bloody shard away. He recognizes the recklessness of it, but he can’t let Bucky hurt himself.

Bucky’s reaction is immediate. Steve feels the first stab in his right deltoid, the second in his left pectoral. He scrambles to push Bucky away, to retaliate without causing him any real harm, but the third stab punctures his lung, Steve thinks, and the world dims as he gasps desperately for air that seems thin and insufficient. He tries to say something, say anything to wake Bucky, but his voice is weak; there’s no air to support it.

He feels the blood soaking his shirt, and he’s vaguely aware as he surveys the sheer amount of blood draining from his body that there’s more than three shards of glass sticking from his chest and abdomen. Bucky’s stabbed him many more times, but he didn’t feel them. _That’s not good_.

The carpet is wet with his blood. When did he fall down? The world goes black.

 

*

*

*

 

Steve watched the last cassette on a Thursday afternoon, less than a week after returning from Novosibirsk.

It wasn’t actually the last cassette he _could_ have watched; there were dozens more sitting in boxes surrounding the old tube television in the basement storage of the compound, but it was the last one Steve could handle. The rest were superfluous. He had his answers, his context, the reason why Bucky was so damn broken. There was no more point in continuing.

Unlike most of the cassettes, this video wasn’t filmed on a stationary tripod, nor was it security footage. The cameraman jostled around what appeared to be some sort of office party in the same lab Bucky was given ECT. Various doctors and med techs, many Steve recognized from previous videos, clamoured around, swigging from bottles, talking in indecipherable Russian as thrumming electronic dance music played in the background. An older man high fived the cameraman as he danced through the crowd, later another clinked shot glasses with him, and a young woman flirtatiously grabbed the camera with a laugh, turning it on the cameraman who jokingly gave it the peace sign before taking it back while the woman faux pouted.

The music lowered as someone started making an announcement; the camera swirled around and panned to the source: a middle-aged woman wearing a lab coat. <<...significant efforts of my colleagues...achieve Hydra’s mission, more important now than ever...breakthrough came when we realized that after we quadruple the voltage, he stays compliant longer...coupled with previous drugs and programming…some long-term cognition issues currently being researched by the esteemed Dr. Yozhin...minimize downtime and prep time...allow for efficiencies in both field duties and research...enjoy your evening. You’ve earned it through long days and evenings, weekends spent away from loved ones, some of you even spilt some blood…>> It was a teasing remark; the crowd laughed as she gestured to a pair of techs standing by a makeshift bar, each bandaged. One of them raised his glass, the other gave a little bow. More laughter. <<...thank you...Commander Ilyasov would also like to…>>

A man, who Steve realized minutes into his speech was the same instructor from the _Enhanced Interrogation Training_ cassette, clapped the woman on the back and held up his hands for attention.  <<I’d like to personally thank Dr. Kozlov...our field teams appreciate this advancement...owe you our gratitude...we know firsthand how difficult working with it can be...broken bones, mood swings, those teeth!>> Another titter of laughter as one of the med techs put his hand up, sheepishly grinning. <<My team has experience with that - you’re in good company!...gift for you all to enjoy tonight...unwind and relax…>> Ilyasov waved to someone off-camera; the crowd was silent as the camera panned in the direction of the wave - two uniformed officers dragged a semi-conscious Bucky into the room and deposited him limply in front of Ilyasov.

Someone near the cameraman whispered, <<I’ve always wanted to attend one of these.>>

Someone else, <<This is going to be wild.>>

Ilyasov was still speaking, <<...fully compliant because of your excellent work and additional sedatives for ease of use...no need to worry about any incidents...I know many of you are friends with members of my field teams and have heard about their recreation during downtime and between missions...please do as you wish, it’s not scheduled for assignment for three weeks…>> One of the uniformed officers had left the lab and since returned with a box full of - Steve squinted, horrified - stun batons. <<...modified setting for recreation...electricity will not transfer to anyone in contact with it...be creative and have a wonderful evening!>>

Applause and laughter, and the music revved up again as chattering people walked over to where Bucky was, forming a loose circle around him. The cameraman pushed through to the front of the crowd where Bucky lay unmoving on the floor. Kozlov and Ilyasov stood behind him, shaking hands with various attendees.

Kozlov smiled and patted Ilyasov on the arm, <<...leave these fine people to their evening...no one wants to party with their boss.>> The cameraman laughed and said something indiscernible, heavily slurred, and panned down to Bucky, still motionless but blinking slowly, eyes fixed on something in the distance. Only seconds after Kozlov and Ilyasov exited, one of the injured techs pushed his way forward.

<<...first dibs...think I deserve it, right?>> A few hoots from the crowd, as the tech grabbed a stun baton and with a theatrical swish activated it, the audible electric hum eliciting a drunken giggle. He strolled closer to Bucky with a bravado that mostly masked his nervousness, and yanked Bucky up by his hair. There was a collective hush as the crowd waited for some reaction, some retaliation, but Bucky remained placid, only an uncomfortable grimace on his face as his hair was pulled; otherwise he was unresponsive. Confident now, the tech struck him on the back of the neck with one hard blow of the baton. Bucky grunted painfully and fell to the floor, the thud drowned out by raucous, excited applause.

Another member of the crowd emerged and took a stun baton, <<It broke my ankle last year. I was on crutches for two months.>> and struck him on his leg. Then another member struck him on the right arm, then another on his ass, then another on his thigh. Bucky curled into the fetal position, trying to shield his face from the subsequent blows aimed at his head.

The second injured tech took a stun baton and tossed it from hand to hand before rounding on Bucky. <<...piece of shit...nothing but medical garbage...bit my hand because I was nice enough to give it water.>> The tech waved someone over holding a full bottle of vodka and snagged it. <Want something to drink now?>> The tech pinched Bucky’s mouth open and tipped the vodka bottle upside down in it.

Bucky spluttered and coughed, but the tech kept the bottle firm, and another member of the crowd came forward to hold his head in place. More vodka went down than came up, and when the tech relented and finally removed the bottle, it was almost entirely empty save for a few swigs.

<<Can it even get drunk?>>

<<It’s going to need it with what I’m planning to do.>>

Without warning the same tech struck Bucky in the throat with the stun baton, activating it upon impact. Bucky seized, choked, and spewed burning vodka from his mouth and nose, gasping desperate breaths as the liquid continued to come up.

The onlookers laughed as Bucky struggled to breathe.

The flirtatious woman from earlier stepped forward in dangerously tall heels, taking the nearly empty bottle from the tech. <<Should I? Should I?>> she asked, crimson smile wide as she brandished the bottle over Bucky’s head, threatening to spill the remaining contents.

Someone yelled <<Do it!>> and she poured the vodka on Bucky’s head, soaking his hair, face and neck. She took a stun baton and held it against Bucky’s wet shoulder blades for at least thirty seconds while Bucky convulsed beneath her, groaning.

<<...fucking thing pissed itself...didn’t even know it had a dick…>>

<<No dick, heard they cut it off years ago…>>

<<No way that’s true.>>

<<One way to know.>>

The woman pointed to the last speaker and grinned. <Going to need some help then.>> She started unbuckling his tactical vest while others from the crowd pulled off his shoes and pants. His briefs were soaked through, and midway through a buckle, when the woman noticed this, she grabbed her baton again and shocked him on the inner thigh where he was still wet. Bucky sobbed weakly, “No, I’ll be good.”

<<Didn’t know it could speak English.>>

<<Didn’t know it could speak at all.>>

Naked save for his briefs, Bucky tried to curl in on himself again, but someone from the crowd kicked his legs apart. The woman took the final swig from the vodka and asked, <<Can I do the honours?>> before pulling off his briefs.

<<Disappointing, I always thought it was dickless.>>

<<No, the fist of Hydra definitely needs a dick.>>

The woman’s eyes lingered on Bucky. <<Not bad,>> she said coyly, turning to the cameraman and winking as she pressed the sole of her stiletto against his soft cock. She stepped down harder until she was rewarded with a hiss.

<<Going to ride it, Alina?>> a joking voice near the camera asked, <<A living dildo.>>

Alina smirked and shrugged. <<Maybe another time, but for now - >> Her eyes moved up to his metal arm and the rope-thick scars on the flesh surrounding it. <<Any engineers here?>>

<<Here.>> a young blonde man answered, a few rows deep in the crowd.

<<What’s the arm made of?>>

<<Titanium alloys mostly…cybernetics, of course.>>

<<Is it conductive?>>

<<The titanium isn’t...some silver and trace aluminum...sufficient for minor conductivity...wired into the nerves at the shoulder; he’d feel it…>>

Alina flipped the stun baton back on. <<...test and find out…>>  and she pressed the baton where the flesh met metal, as Bucky arched away from her, grunting through clenched teeth. A handful of other onlookers took stun batons and joined, each striking the plates of Bucky’s arm and the scarring around the shoulder and pectoral. He arched further away and tried to shield his arm from the blows by hiding it under his body, but several men pinned him down.

<<...not so strong now.>>

<<It probably gets off on this, that’s why it’s not fighting.>>

The cameraman zoomed in on Alina laughing as she stood up and stepped over Bucky, teetering in her high heels. She passed her baton off to another member of the crowd, an athletic middle-aged man, who stumbled forward, very drunk. <<...need to turn this into a proper party...got something it wants…>> He turned Bucky on his side, shifted his legs into a vulnerable, open position and struck him hard on the ass, a slight electrical burn visible on the soft skin as he removed the baton. <<I heard it loves it up the ass. Don’t you, baby?>> The crowd squealed as he struck him a second and third time in quick succession, leaving Bucky winded. <<Want this, baby?>> He rubbed the stun baton against Bucky’s cleft in a mockery of gentleness before activating it, causing Bucky to spasm.

One of the men holding him down laughed, <<Come on, Misha, get to the good stuff.>> The people who’d been shocking his arm ceased, and joined in pinning Bucky on his back, legs splayed.

Misha grinned at the camera. <<You better make me a copy!>> Then, holding Bucky flat to the floor with one hand on his abdomen, he shoved the baton inside in one twisting motion.

Woots and applause. The flirtatious woman could be heard yelling, <<It loves it! Harder!>> from somewhere across the room. Bucky’s cries were silent under the volume of the crowd, but his grimace was obvious, his eyes squeezed together, tears dripping down his cheeks.

The cameraman awkwardly zoomed in on the baton as Misha shoved it in and out, taking the baton almost entirely out before ramming it back inside, rougher with each subsequent thrust. <<It’s got a sloppy, wet cunt. Fucking built for it.>> Bucky tried to push himself away, but the sedatives kept his legs from coordinating; he’d push up weakly, try to scramble backwards, and collapse pathetically on the same spot. <<...been fucked open before...field teams must use him after every mission...it’s so God damn loose…>>

<<Turn it on.>>

<<Yeah, Misha, turn it on already.>>

<<If you don’t turn it on, I’m going to whack _you_ with one of those stun batons. >>

He grinned savagely and patted Bucky on the shoulder. <<Sorry, comrade,>> he laughed as he switched it on mid thrust.

Bucky’s whole body seized, and he convulsed violently on the floor as the crowd cheered. Misha pushed the baton in as far as he could and held it there unmoving, pressing it in fully with his palm, as Bucky desperately tried to push away through the convulsions, panting like an animal. The other men pinned him to the floor tightly, occasionally shocking him under his arms or around his nipples.

<<...slut wants it...give it what it wants…>>

<<...fucking whore…>>

<<...panting like a barn cat in heat…>>

<<...faggy little pussy…>>

The cameraman was pushed back as the crowd swelled around him; several people forced their way past and grabbed batons, converging on the ground around Bucky, obscuring the camera’s line of sight. The cameraman panned down as he ran to the other side of the crowd, bumping into cheering and laughing people as he shouldered through.

<<... kind of sick, don’t you think?>>

<<It killed Anton last year...deserves everything it gets…>>

<<...don’t disagree...seems excessive…>>

<<...not a real person anyway…>>

<<...won’t remember it...fry it before the next mission…>>

<<...field teams treat it worse. This is probably a vacation for it…>>

The cameraman tilted the camera back up when he found a new, unobstructed position, focusing on Bucky as additional men knelt between his legs. A second stun baton had been pushed inside alongside the first, both active judging by Bucky’s open-mouthed sob and full-body convulsions. A man thrust the second baton in and out while the first remained deep in place, Bucky’s hole stretched unnaturally wide. Another man, well-dressed in a tailored suit, was striking his balls and perineum, activating the baton for long stretches as he jammed it under his testicles; he prompted a woman in the crowd to take a photo. Another woman held a stun baton lengthwise against Bucky’s soft cock, keeping it unrelentingly active as Bucky tried to thrust his hips to get away.

<<...fag pissed itself again…>>

<<...someone grab another baton...shock the fucker.>>

<<...mouth needs fucking too…>

A bespectacled woman knelt by Bucky’s head, laughing shyly, <<...always wanted to do this…>> she said with a blush, looking back at a man in the crowd hesitantly, who nodded approval, chuckling. She slid the baton in Bucky’s open, sobbing mouth.

<<You can do better than that,>> the man in the crowd encouraged, and ever so gingerly she slipped it inside further until Bucky was gagging around it, only enough left out that she could barely grip it. The cameraman zoomed in on Bucky’s face: eyes unfocused but terrified, whole face wet with tears, drool, and snot, simultaneously gasping and crying around the baton.

<<Give it a good face fucking, Irina!>>

Irina giggled and pulled the baton out slowly before easing it back in.

<<You can do it faster than that, sweetie. Give it to it hard.>>

Irina was flushed with some combination of embarrassment and excitement. <<...not like I have much experience…>> she laughed as she thrust it in again with more force.

<<...like you mean it!>>

She pushed it in and out again, faster, choking Bucky as he convulsed from the shocks inside of him and around his bruised and burned cock and balls.

<<I think it’s trying to say something.>>

“...teve...Ste…”

<<Pussy says it wants more.>>

<<I think I broke one of its teeth.>>

<<That’s the spirit.>>

The woman shocking Bucky’s cock with the stun baton waved to a young man in the crowd. <<Join in! Didn’t it knock you unconscious for like a week a few years ago?>>

The man jostled forward and picked up a spare baton. <<Not much room left,>> he said with an easy smile.

<<Those puffy fag nipples could use something>> and the man sat down next to Bucky’s chest and pressed the active baton against his right nipple.

<<It likes it,>> someone jeered as Bucky’s whole body shook.

<<Turn it on, Irina. Give it what it deserves.” The bespectacled woman was still thrusting the baton in and out of Bucky’s mouth. She bit her lip nervously and smiled up at the man in crowd, then activated the baton with a giggle.

The scream was ungodly: loud and high and frantic, and Bucky’s whole body went rigid. Irina dropped the baton in surprise and jumped up, stepping back instinctively. Bucky flailed, trying to get free to turn off the baton, which was still lodged in his mouth. He managed to throw off the man shocking his nipples, and in return the woman between his legs reared up and grabbed the stun baton in his mouth, face fucking him wildly as the baton hummed ominously. The crowd roared.

<<Fuck, this is great.>>

<<Olga’s going to be so jealous she missed this.>>

<<Do you smell burning?>>

The woman yanked the baton out of Bucky’s mouth, shocking him on the tongue and lips on the way out. Bucky’s eyes were half open, his body convulsing only weakly now as someone tried to push a third baton in his ass.

His words were bady slurred, barely understandable, but Steve heard them, “Please, please, Steve. I’ll be good, please stop.”

Steve vomited. Then vomited more. And more. Then dry heaved. The video was only a third completed. He overturned the television.

 

*

*

*

 

 _Trouble Man_ is playing. Steve is vaguely aware of someone speaking, but the words are distant, echoing, muffled as if filtered through water. As he opens heavy eyes, the lights are soft, the walls are white - the med center.

“Waking up, man?” Sam.

“You had us worried.” Nat.

“The man’s seen worse. A dozen or so stabby-stabbies from his old war pal isn’t going to down the good Captain.” Tony.

“Where is he?” Steve barely recognizes his voice. It’s hoarse from disuse.

“We can talk about that later. You need more rest.” Nat leans against the far wall, “It’s good to see you alive. You were pretty rough yesterday; you lost a lot of blood.”

“Is he in the cell? That’ll scare him, set him back. I need -” Steve’s half out of bed before Sam and Tony push him back in. Nat must be right about the blood loss; the world spins and he falls back without a fight.

“No, he’s not here, Steve.” Sam’s frowning.

“We can talk about this later,” Nat says pointedly to Sam.

“Just tell me where he is.”

Silence. Nat glares at Sam.

Tony sits down next to Steve, “He left yesterday morning after dropping you here. He was bugged out pretty bad, wasn’t fully with it; he said Hydra hurt you. I’m guessing that’s not what happened, or do I have a security breach FRIDAY isn’t aware of?”

“It wasn’t his fault. It was a nightmare. He broke the window and I intervened. It’s on me.”

“None of this is your fault,” Nat says.

“All of what happened to Bucky is my fault.”

“Man, that’s not remotely true. Blame is squarely on Hydra.” Sam shakes his head and Steve turns back to Tony.

“So he just left?”

Tony shrugs, “Hopped the perimeter and went northwest. FRIDAY tracked him for five miles but he found cover in the forest and we lost him. Vision gave it a shot but we think he got to Pitcairn or Harrisville first, probably stole a car, maybe headed to the Canadian border.”

“And you just gave up? You just let him go?”

“Come on, give me some credit. We’re monitoring all channels - satellites, facial recognition, border security, police reports, the works.”

Nat catches Steve’s eyes, “We’ll find him.” Her voice is steady and Steve appreciates it even if it’s a bold lie.

“Not if he doesn’t want to be found. You know that.”

“He might come back,” Sam suggests. “Maybe he just needs to cool down, get himself together. It’s possible. He came here before, he could do it again.”

”Not likely after he burned down the storage bunker,” Tony drums his knuckles on the bed rail, tense. “And all those cassettes FRIDAY never had the chance to analyze along with it.”

“Tony, not now,” Nat warns.

“He what?”

“Torched it. Broke into the weapons vault and stole some grenades and a flamethrower, then went Rambo on the bunker. Nothing but ash left. It’s a good thing the bunker itself is fireproof or we’d have a bigger mess to clean up.”

“Tony, Steve needs rest. We can discuss this after -”

Tony cuts Nat off again, voice tight, “Any idea why he’d destroy those tapes?”

“Jesus, lay off. He just woke up. We don’t need to do this now.” Sam says.

“You think he destroyed Hydra intel? You think he sabotaged us?” Steve breathes.

“I think it’s something we need to consider.” Tony’s measuring his words unusually carefully, Steve thinks.

“If you knew half the hell he's been through you wouldn’t even suggest that.”

“I know that he’s been through enough to make it impossible to predict what he’s going to do. You nearly _died_ yesterday, Steve. You were stabbed fourteen times. You lost five pints of blood. You punctured a lung. You were in surgery for seven hours. If you weren’t _you_ , you’d be dead and we’d be planning your funeral.”

“You need to step back, give Steve some space.” Sam puts a hand on Tony’s shoulder, but he shrugs him off.

Tony takes a steadying breath, “I know he’s your friend, and I know you want to defend him, but he almost killed you then destroyed a God damn goldmine of Hydra leads. What does that look like to you?”

“You’re leaving now, Tony. This isn’t helping. We can talk about this later after Steve’s rested.” Nat takes Tony by the arm and begins to escort him to the door, but Steve interjects.

“They were his tapes. He had every right to burn them.”

“And destroy evidence, kill leads? Big picture, Cap.” Tony raises his voice for the first time and shakes off a frowning Nat.

“There was no intel. I watched most of them myself. No locations outside of the bases we already hit in Omsk and Vilnius. No strategy or planning, no tech we aren’t already aware of, no named agents that aren’t already dead or in jail for life. I followed up on every piece of information. There was nothing there.”

“Then what the fuck was on them?”

“Nothing you need to know about.”

“How is it that you alone get to make that call?”

“It’s private, Tony. Leave it at that.”

Nat’s brow furrows as pieces click into place. She looks over at Steve, eyes expressive in a way uncommon for her. “Fuck, Steve, you could have told me, I could have gotten rid of them myself.”

“What the hell did I just miss?” Sam questions.

Steve and Nat stare at each other for a moment, then Steve asks, “How do you know?”

“Gossip travelled in my old circles. Hydra was known for…” she pauses, searching for the right word, “certain predilections. Red Room graduates avoided Hydra agents as much as possible on principle. It was risk reduction. I never thought that they’d...” she pauses again, shakes her head, “at least not with someone they spent so much effort on. Why risk a tactical advantage for...that?”

“They’re sick, that’s why.” Steve rests his head on the pillow. It’s the only explanation he can reason. During the sleepless nights spent listening to Bucky’s nightmares, Steve would ask himself _why the hell did they do this? Why were they so needlessly cruel?_ Bucky was broken already, brainwashed, controlled; the medical experiments, the torture, the fucking rape, none of it served any strategic purpose, gave them no more leverage than they already had, offered no extra advantage. They were sick; the whole organization was rotting from the inside out. It was the only explanation Steve could figure, no matter how unsatisfactory and hollow.

“Care to share with the class?” Tony’s arms are folded, his expression still sour.

Nat sighs, “No. Don’t want to trust Steve on this one? Fine, but trust me, Tony, this isn’t some latent Hydra programming. Move on. There’s always other leads.”

Tony’s appraising Steve, looking him up hard in the eyes like when they first met years ago. He exhales, resigned. “You could have come to me if there was an issue. You’ve been walled off on the other side of the compound for months, and I understand that’s where you needed to be, but you can always come to me.”

“Thanks Tony.”

“I’ll keep you posted on Barnes.”

 

*

*

*

 

Five days later Steve’s given clearance to return to the apartment. Tony had sent in a cleaning crew to remove the glass and the blood, and told Steve he could get staff to retrieve Steve’s belongings if he wanted to move back to his suite in the main building. Steve wasn’t sure what he wanted.

Aside from Bucky. Steve wanted Bucky.

The apartment smells like disinfectant and bleach. The remnants of the lunch Steve hadn’t cleaned up that day have been tidied, the paperback Bucky had been reading is sitting neatly on his sofa, and Steve’s shattered cell phone has been removed from the patio.

Someone even watered the damn vegetables.

It’s as if it didn’t happen. It’s as if Steve hadn’t once again failed Bucky monumentally. Bucky could be reading on the sofa, or working out in the gym, or using his tablet on the patio; Steve could be sitting near him, close by if he needed anything. The normalcy is jarring. It’s as if Steve hadn’t derailed what little they had. He never thought he’d long for something he’d once been so resentful of. He just wants Bucky, even if there was no touching or conversation or intimacy of any kind; he just wants to have him here safe and nearby, and have the hope of _tomorrow will be better_ , or at the very least, _today was okay._

Steve ruins two punching bags despite the doctor’s warning to go easy for a few weeks. He makes plans to run with Sam in the morning. He heats up soup for lunch because he has no one to cook for. He drinks coffee and reads Bucky’s paperback in the afternoon, curled up on Bucky’s sofa. When he finishes his coffee, he almost announces his intention to wash the mug.

He sits on Bucky’s bed and wonders whether Bucky was even remotely happy here. Maybe this was just a dressed up jail and Steve was only decent as far as handlers go. Maybe he’s better away from him, away from reminders of what Hydra took. Maybe he can find some little Canadian town and build something resembling a life there.

Steve had only been in Bucky’s room the one time. It’s pristine now; the new window is indistinguishable from the old one, the carpet is clean of blood and glass, the bedpost has been replaced, and the bed is made.

He wants to open the nightstand to see what Bucky stored there, then open the closet, check under the mattress, search for any hidden troves of information, any hint to Bucky’s mindset. He’d been living with a closed-off stranger for over a year, and now that Bucky’s left, Steve just desperately needs answers. But he doesn’t do any of those things; he’s invaded Bucky’s privacy enough, inserted himself into secrets Bucky obviously didn’t want him knowing, and even if Bucky’s gone now, Steve won’t pry again, regardless how much he wants to.

Instead he lays on Bucky’s bed, in this taboo room he was never permitted to enter, and naps.

 

*

*

*

 

Bucky’s sitting on the floor against the closet when Steve wakes up.

Steve doesn’t dare say anything, doesn’t dare move. He stares at Bucky in awe, as Bucky refuses to meet his eyes, fixated instead on the floor.

“You’re okay?” Bucky still won’t look up.

“Yeah, Buck. I’m fine. Are you okay?”

“I almost killed you. Again.”

“But you didn’t. Clean bill of health from the doctor.” Steve's trying to sound casual.

Bucky traces the threads of the carpet with his metal fingers. “I’m sorry for everything.”

“You don’t have anything to -”

“No, I do. I almost killed you. I couldn’t get past all of it and ran us into the ground. I’m sorry that I can’t be who you want -”

“You’re exactly who I want.”

“I know how miserable I am to live with. I’m fucked up but I’m not stupid. I know you’re angry at me and that I deserve it. We can’t talk or do things. We can’t even touch. I know you’re only here with me because of what we had, who I was, not who I am now. And now I almost killed you.”

“Bucky, please listen. I love -”

“I’m only here to see that you’re okay. I’m sorry you spent so much time trying to fix me when I’m so fucking broken. We both need to move on. It’ll be better this way; you can have the life you want.”

“Just listen -”

“I should never have come here. I have to go.”

Steve’s out of bed. Bucky flinches back as Steve sits on the floor across from him, leaving a few feet between them.

“Would you be happier somewhere else?”

Bucky closes his eyes and leans his head against the closet door. “I don’t know.”

“I could go with you. We can get off the compound, get off the grid. Fresh start somewhere else. Anywhere you want.”

“You’re missing the point, Steve.”

“We can’t end like this. ‘til the end of the line, right?”

“You going to keep me here?”

Steve sags. “Of course not.”

Bucky breathes out shakily. “Put your hand out and don’t move a fucking a muscle.” Steve extends his hand, palm up, so it hovers in the space between them. “I’m serious - not a fucking muscle.” Bucky inches his own hand forward, and so cautiously places it in Steve’s palm. He flinches at the initial contact, his breathing loud, but he stays there, hand resting against Steve’s while Steve wills himself not to break into pieces. Bucky’s warm, calloused, and so familiar. It’s been decades but Steve could still map his hands blind. He doesn’t move his fingers, doesn’t cup Bucky’s hands or caress his thumb like he wants. Steve stays still.

“Bucky, we can find a way to make this work.”

“You’ll go crazy trying to make me better, and you’ll be miserable every day that I‘m not. You’re too good a person to admit it, but you resent this. And that’s fair. You deserve better than me. You deserve everything.”

Bucky’s said more in the last five minutes than he had in the previous year.

“I only want you. You’re everything.”

“You should have stopped trying when you watched those fucking tapes. You should have turfed me out then when you realized what happened.”

“None of that was your fault.”

“Christ, you don’t have to act like I’m some innocent victim.”

“That’s exactly what -”

“Please, Steve. I need to leave.”

“I love you.”

“I know. I love you too.” The warmth of Bucky’s hand withdraws, and he’s up and walking away down the hall. Steve’s following him, words spilling out of his mouth that he can’t even track, desperate pleas for more time.

“Don’t follow me.”

“If you think I’m just going to give up on us -”

“How can you even look at me, knowing what I did? How many people I killed?” Bucky’s turned around, red in the face, yelling. “How can you want to touch me knowing how many Hydra cocks I sucked? How many I took up the ass? Everyone had me, all the time, as much as they wanted, and I never got away. I never fought back. At least before you saw the tapes, I could pretend like maybe I’d get better, maybe we could piece something together. But now you know who I am, what I’ve done, and you’ll never unsee it. We can’t come back from this.” He’s crying. “I can’t come back from this. Every time you touch me, I can feel it again, and I hate myself for not fighting then, and I hate myself for fighting now.”

“Then don’t fight now.” Steve extends his palm again, and Bucky stares at him desperately for a moment before putting his shaking hand down in Steve’s. “You’ve already come back from it; the day you left Hydra, it wasn’t you anymore.” Something catches in Bucky’s throat and he lightly grasps Steve’s hand. “ _This_ is proof we can make this work.”

Bucky’s hand is shaking, and they’re touching skin to skin, and Steve can’t resist any more. He caresses Bucky’s thumb lightly and braces himself for the coming blow, but when Bucky launches himself at Steve, it’s not in an attack, but in a sobbing embrace.

“Can I -”

“Yes.”

Steve holds him for the first time in decades, huddled together on the floor of the hall, Bucky clutching frantically to his shoulders and neck, as a stunned Steve hesitantly strokes his back, memorizing the details of their bodies against each other’s again.

“Please don’t go.”

“I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be who you want.”

“I just want you. Talking or not, touching or not. I just want you.”

Bucky takes a deep breath and pushes away from their embrace. “Too much,” he whispers.

“That’s okay. It’s a good start.”

Bucky nods.


End file.
